


the one where Szayelaporro Granz and Lucius Malfoy are soul mates somehow

by Tozette



Series: Soulmate AU Challenge Fics [5]
Category: Bleach, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Mild Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, this is what i get for answering requests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8449258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tozette/pseuds/Tozette
Summary: “Oh,” purred Szayelaporro, rubbing his thumb in a long slow stroke down the mark. “Lucky, lucky me.”The man made a soft, choked noise, and then said, “Shit.”Szayel supposed that the revelation that a soul-eating monster from the abyss was one’s soul mate wasn’t the best possible news for a human, but he just as quickly decided that while this would make the human’s situation marginally more pitiable it would have no impact upon Szayel’s behaviour.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the writing challenge I've imposed on myself over on tumblr. If you wanna check out what I'm up to, you can find the rules [over here on my personal blog](http://tozettewrites.tumblr.com/post/152004964326/soulmate-aus-writing-challenge-to-myself). I think the most important thing to know is that it does mean that anything posted as a result of the challenge _has not been edited_! I'll admit my editing process sometimes leaves a bit to be desired but this is pretty much raw.
> 
> Note: I don’t know how to write crossovers so, here, let me distract you with some sex.

Voldemort summoned a demon on a quiet Thursday night at the tail end of summer. Or, well. He tried. _An effort was made._

Such things required a sacrifice, of course. The text he was cribbing from called for four litres of blood from a pureblood wizard, and he didn't bother pretending to deliberate before he selected Malfoy.

Just to add to the insult, he decided the sprawling ballroom of Malfoy Manor would be the appropriate venue for the experiment, and certainly nobody tried to complain about the difficulty of getting blood out of the marble. Nobody even tried to complain that seriously injuring a pureblood wizard didn't really gel with the Death Eaters' political ideology.

Mostly these days the Death Eaters all put on their masks, showed up, and hoped it wasn't them on the wrong end of Voldemort's wand...

...which was actually Lucius's wand, as it happened, since for some reason he'd decided he liked that one better lately. There was an explanation, they were sure. Well. Mostly sure.

They all showed up when they were called and crowded around the decorative fluted columns at each end of the ballroom, peering across the huge, fire lit space.

Lucius was almost more humiliated by disrobing in public -in front of his wife and son, even -than he was by the prospect of being bled like a stuck pig for the benefit of some vile creature from the abyss.

At the very last moment he realised he had the choice between cringing in shame and brazening it out, and he'd still be naked anyway so -- brazen it was.

When the Dark Lord called him forward and demanded he strip, he did it with his chin up and his jaw clenched, and didn't bother trying to hide. He was tall, he was well-formed, he was fit. Even if he hadn’t been, he still looked better with his clothes off than ninety per cent of the people in the room.

This was fine. He shook his hair over his shoulder and set his jaw.

Somebody wolf-whistled at him. It was either Bellatrix or Greyback, and both possibilities made his blood run icy cold. _That_ discomfort must have showed, because somebody else loosed a rumbling masculine laugh.

He didn’t hear what the low comment was that followed, but he certainly recognised the tone. That was... embarrassing, but without a wand in his hand it was also threatening. His fingers twitched.

Lord Voldemort ignored the byplay, far above it as ever -- or below it, or perhaps even sideways from it. "Kneel," he said instead, and Lucius was almost glad to have an excuse to curl up.

He fixed his eyes on the Dark Lord's hem and dropped easily to his knees, and then just watched the floor when he stalked out of Lucius’s field of view. His bare feet made no sound on the polished marble so Lucius was left tracking the soft hiss of fabric as he walked.

The Dark Lord made a soft, surprised noise. Lucius flinched at the touch of a wand on his spine.

It moved, dragging a line from the small of his back to the curve of his shoulder blade, and Lucius felt his stomach clench. Of course. There was no possible way Voldemort was going to let this go without examining and commenting upon it. For one, people who saw it rarely did.

"Is this soul mark a ... _butterfly_ , Lucius?" he asked, with a curl of ironic humour evident in his high raspy voice.

There was a shift of soft soled shoes as the assembled Death Eaters shuffled to get a closer look.

And yes, all right. It was a butterfly -- a giant African swallowtail, with stark brown and orange wings that were nearly eight inches across when they were spread flat over his skin.

"I believe I asked you a question, Lucius."

The answer had been pretty obvious, but in hindsight the Dark Lord rarely asked questions because he wanted to know the answers. They were more of a dramatic cue.

"Yes, my lord."

"'Yes' what?"

Lucius tried quite hard to avoid the appearance of impatience or irritation. People had died for less and the Dark Lord’s mind was not laced tightly. Also he was about to take a knife to Lucius’s hide. No need to provoke him. "Yes, my soul mark is a butterfly."

“He twitched when Voldemort's wand ran over the top of the butterfly, felt the thing's enormous wings flutter, frantic but trapped beneath his skin. He wouldn’t touch it with his skin, but the wand -- even though it was Lucius’s wand, technically -- was quite awful enough. For a horrible second it felt like he could feel its spindly legs kicking inside his shoulder, scraping against his nerves.

More than one of the Death Eaters tittered at the admission. Even Crabbe, who he knew for a fact had a sprig of rosemary that bloomed seasonally right on the arch of his foot.

"I'd never have expected it of you, Lucius," said the Dark Lord. He dug the tip in, making the trapped thing shake and thrash. Lucius's stomach twisted at the feeling.

"I hope your soul mate won't _mind_ ," he said, high and mocking.

Then it was back to business, which was so much worse.

The Dark Lord wielded the knife himself, which would have been reckoned a great honour had it been even marginally less likely to result in fatal shock. As it was, some of the die-hards still seemed a little too invested in the performance.

The cuts were shallow, because of course they were. It meant he had to come back and cut again and again as the bleeding stopped.

"I've finally found a use for a wizard with no wand who can't show his face in public," Voldemort said. "Don't you like being useful, Lucius?"

Malfoy had a good poker face, but more than one Death Eater noticed the inevitable flick of his eyes toward his kid, who stood wild-eyed and sweating in the shadow of a column. "Yes, my lord."

"And it is better to be used than useless, isn't it, Lucius?"

"...Yes, my lord."

The Dark Lord laid a too-familiar hand upon his hair, down the nape of his neck. Lucius shuddered at the touch. Several Death Eaters were doubtless offended by his evident discomfort at their master’s touch, but some would also be sympathetic. Voldemort's fingers hovered just shy of touching the mark directly -- that would be bordering on sexual assault, and Lucius had to trust that the Dark Lord's pride wouldn't allow him to sully himself.

Wizards were a tough lot in the great scheme of humanoid resilience, but four litres was a lot -- more than Lucius's body would reliably replenish. He could feel it come upon him before they were halfway done, and it only got worse: speeding heart, numbing extremities, sluggish thoughts and a strange dizzy euphoria. He slumped over well before the blood was all taken, buzzing and weak.

He drained four thousand and fifty millilitres. Lucius's blood was bright red where the air hit it, thin and rusty-smelling, and so potent he could almost taste it. His stomach rolled dangerously.

He couldn't get up, even once the bleeding seemed more or less over. The Dark Lord left Lucius sprawled there while he paced around the room, dripping blood in intricate and studied patterns.

Nobody came to help him up. Not even Narcissa, although she was quick enough at least to stop Draco from running to him. Silly thing. Draco was too young for all of this. They both worried that at some point he was going to suffer from an excess of feelings and get himself killed.

Lucius made it all the way to his knees once, but the second he held his head up everything spun and went white.

Lucius was insensible for several long minutes, and woke only for the tail end of the ritual -- for which he was still inside the circle. At the closing of the lengthy Latin incantation he realised fuzzily that being the only living thing left inside a ritual circle when a demon was summoned was a Very Bad Thing Indeed.

He could feel the magic gathering and he still couldn't seem to find his feet -- or in fact his knees. He swayed and his vision faltered every time he tried to move under his own power.

There was a hissing sound, followed by bubbling, followed by a horrible screech like nails on a chalkboard, all of which was accompanied by a ragged hole that cut right through reality. Looking through it hurt the eyes, and while Voldemort stared hungrily, most of his followers looked away.

Lucius did not look away, but only because that would require moving his head, which seemed like an awful idea right now.

The demon wore white. Pristine, stark, blinding white.

That seemed ironic.

* * *

Szayelaporro Granz had performed only cursory research into the soul mate phenomenon - which was to say that he had exhaustively examined others' research but made no contributions of his own to the existing body of knowledge on the topic.

He'd been content with this state of affairs for a great many years, but moments after he was pulled through a clumsy garganta in the south of England he had a cringing moment of perspective and wondered why he'd never bothered.

It didn’t dawn on him right that second, although his magnificent mind was already ticking over quickly, picking apart possibilities and probabilities and trying to judge how a bunch of humans had managed to sink their hooks into his reiryoku and drag him from Hueco Mundo to their world.

The place they’d brought him was large, prettily-decorated, with bright splashes of blood spilt across the floor in precise symbols. Szayel could read most of them, having looked briefly into most symbology systems at one time or other, and while he could see that they were intended to summon a hollow -- maybe even a higher order hollow, perhaps a Menos? -- he could not figure out how they’d gone and summoned _him_.

“Fascinating,” he mused, ignoring the way almost all of the humans in the room shuddered when he spoke. Every last one of them had enough reiryoku to see ghosts and hollows, which meant all of them could feel him. “I’d no idea we could be summoned.”

His summoner was easy enough to pick apart from the rest -- the one with bare feet and greying skin, more dead than alive. He was tall and imposing to the eyes but diminished to Szayel’s other senses. His body was not only low on reiryoku, the natural spiritual power people were _meant_ to have, but also pretty low on reishi -- he was a spiritual black spot.

A human who’d obliterated his own soul? How? Why? What was even better was that this person was clearly the one who’d provided the will and control for the summoning, even if there were other sources for the sheer amount of power behind it.

Szayelaporro’s interest was immediately piqued and his long fingers twitched. He could see himself labelling specimen jars already. What will and desire the man must have had when he’d been whole.

“And who,” he wondered, slouching back on his hips and crossing his arms, “might you be?”

Even if nothing else came of Szayel’s experiments, he knew he’d be tasty once they were done. A hollow had to eat, after all.

...and, all right, an arrancar technically didn’t _have_ to, not in the same way, but there was so much power there Szayel was willing to make an exception. A delicious exception.

But in the mean time: so many interesting things, he could hardly stand it!

He tilted his head to follow the lines of blood before him. A circle, of course -- low-level bakudo, essentially, probably designed to keep a hollow trapped. It wasn’t strong enough to keep an arrancar in check, but the spell didn’t look like it had been designed to call an arrancar in the first place. The evidence was piling up -- they’d asked for a hollow, _any_  hollow, and gotten Szayel entirely by accident.

Which didn’t make sense. There wasn’t enough power for it.

Had he left something in the human world at some point? Had they managed to get ahold of his remains? -- but, no, because he’d been torn apart and put back together again and scraped his way to the top of the menos dogpile since then. Whatever link the human remains of the idea that was “Szayel” might have had to his actual person was long eroded.

“--And how did you link my reiryoku to this world? What did you use?”

“I am Lord Voldemort,” said the summoner. There was no power in it, but the room went still at the sound of his name, bodies frozen and hearts pounding, energy rising like they all wanted to run but knew better than to draw the bad thing’s attention.

"I have called you seeking knowledge," said the human lord with a surprising composure. "And I can offer you blood and sacrifice in exchange." He gestured vaguely toward something behind Szayel.

"Knowledge? Knowledge, knowledge.” He tapped his chin. “Well, you've certainly come to the right place, and I suppose it’s nice that you at least _want_ to repair your woeful ignorance.” Szayel sneered. He followed the gesture to a person slumped face-first and naked in the summoning circle.

...Oh, that must have been where all the blood came from, then.

The man was big and blond, bloodied but well-built, and he had an uncommonly high reiryoku like most of those in the room. Injured, he couldn’t run away. So he was easy, tasty, nutritious prey -- it probably would have been an appropriate gift for the sort of hollow the spell was aimed to acquire.

It was obviously his blood powering the spell because nobody else was drifting in and out of consciousness, and humans did not take well to losing that much blood. This Szayel knew for certain because he had tested the phenomenon at length.

He deduced through the kind of gift left, the tone of the summoner and the form of the spell that the spell itself had little to do with his arrival, so it had to be one of the components -- those being this man and the summoner himself. Of the two, Szayel didn’t need to break the barrier to inspect the man.

He dropped to one knee, peering at the human to see if he could see or sense anything new about him. He wasn’t a half-remembered blood relative like Yylfordt, was he?

Szayel touched his bare back to get a better read on him. Nothing seemed forthcoming. He smoothed a spill of hair from a bright patch on the man’s shoulder, uncovering a soul mark. Shoulder, not an uncommon placing, although there was little to suggest that the placement was at all significant. Szayel’s was on the lowest curve of his belly, as it happened.

But then he actually looked at the mark, and a strange shudder of recognition swept through him. “Ah,” breathed Szayel, as several things fell into place. His voice came out soft and pleased. “ _That’s_ how he did it.”

He pulled off one glove with his teeth and reached back down to touch, but the man twitched. A terrible expression crossed his face, and he jerked away with evident pain.

Even without touching it became rapidly apparent to Szayel that his assessment had been correct, because he felt a completely alien irritation at the man’s discomfort. 

“Tch,” he muttered, annoyed with both of them. This was a delicate situation to find himself in. The confirmation wouldn’t hurt, either. “Be still,” he hissed, and gripped the back of the man’s neck with his gloved hand. He could feel him struggle, but it was almost effortless to keep him still.

Then he reached down and pressed two fingers to the curve of a butterfly wing. There was a horrified, choked noise from somewhere along the sidelines, and there was a moment where somebody -- another blond, actually -- tried to dash into the circle of bloody runes but was grabbed and held.

The butterfly seemed to contemplate the touch for a single hanging second, and then it fanned its wings out, bright and colourful, spreading its colours flat across the man’s skin. Beneath his touch, the body lost all of its tension and went completely lax.

Ah.

“Oh,” purred Szayelaporro, rubbing his thumb in a long slow stroke down the mark. “Lucky, _lucky_ me.”

The man made a soft, choked noise, and then said, “ _Shit_.”

Szayel supposed that the revelation that a soul-eating monster from the abyss was one’s soul mate wasn’t the best possible news for a human, but he just as quickly decided that while this would make the human’s situation marginally more pitiable it would have no impact upon Szayel’s behaviour.

He‘d been enjoying the game, pretending to be trapped and gathering evidence through discussion with his terribly unique summoner.

But humans really did not last very long once you took all their blood out. In fact, if Szayel had been in charge of explaining human health to somebody he would probably have listed 'keep blood inside body at all times' as one of the most stringent requirements, with only very few exceptions.

“Ah. We’ll have to make this quick,” he lamented. He really had no time to waste now, and he was hardly about to let his soul mate expire on the spot -- if he died, he’d have either induce it or wait for hollowfication to occur before returning with him to Hueco Mundo, and with a soul of reasonably high reiryoku there was bound to be a bloodbath of lower level hollows lining up to take a piece out of him...

No.

He didn’t want to leave behind the beautiful specimen of a shredded human soul, however. How often did something like that come along? No.

He tapped his chin gently, thoughtfully.

Better to discard this performance and get down to business.

Szayelaporro unfolded himself and turned back to Lord Voldemort. He propped his hands on his hips and let his left one tilt his sheath a little, just to make the draw faster.

“You’re a fascinating specimen,” he admitted to him directly, licking his lips even as he thought about it. “And I must say I’m quite excited at the thought of getting you back to my laboratory. I have so many _ideas_ already. I’ve never had a human soul mutilated that way before.” He flexed his fingers like talons.

One step. Two steps. Soon he was at the barrier. “The things I’m going to do to you,” he said in a low, throaty voice, packed with ominous promises and sounding just a little obscene.

“I think,” said Voldemort, soft and threatening, “you do not fully comprehend your situation.” 

The surrounding humans shuddered as one. Szayel could feel their terror in the shaking of their spiritual energy.

Szayel surprised himself with a giddy little laugh. He brought one hand to his mouth to cover it. “ _My_ situation?” he got out, but then he couldn’t seem to stop -- once the little snort of laughter escaped it just kept going. He laughed until he was sure he sounded mad with it, a huge, trembling belly-laugh that filled the room with its echoes.

“Oh,” he said, shifting his mask with one hand so he could wipe a tear from his eye, even as he tried to catch his breath. “Oh, that’s _funny_.” Maybe he’d keep the arrogant one around just for entertainment value -- except, no, probably he’d talk back to somebody and then Nnoitra or Grimmjow would eat him. Which wasn’t fair, because _Szayel_ wanted to eat him.

"It's my preference that you come willingly, Lord Voldemort," he admitted, pacing along the edge of the barrier, "as cooperative subjects are always easier to work with."

He drew his blade and gestured broadly. The tip of it scratched something invisible with an irritating scrape, and then there was a cracking noise and it swept out past the edge of the bloody circle without any further indication of resistance. “But I could go either way,” Szayel added in an obscene purr, low and inviting.

Several bystanders flinched.

“You didn’t think you had me trapped, did you?” he asked, smiling. There was a second of wide eyes and quick breathing. “A thing like you couldn’t possibly understand how _inferior_ you truly are, I suppose,” he added more fiercely.

There was a frozen second where they just looked at each other, and then --

Voldemort whipped his wand forward. “ _Avada kedavra!_ ”

Sonido brought Szayel to a stop right behind him, and he rested Fornicaras gently under the curve of his jaw. “Any control you believe you have over this situation is an illusion -- one graciously granted to you by _me_.”

Then he shot fifteen millilitres of sedatives into Voldemort’s neck, because it was important to be prepared and Szayelaporro was really very good at contingency plans.

He dragged Lord Voldemort by the heel and went back to his soul mate. There, he reached down, grabbed his new favourite specimen by one arm with his long spidery fingers digging into his skin, and casually threw him over one shoulder.

His soul mate was unconscious again before they went back through the tear in reality.

Once the garganta closed, the Death Eaters recovered from their shock and all hell broke loose.

But Szayelaporro was long gone.

* * *

“...yes, waking up. Right on time,” said a voice somewhere nearby, a low soothing counterpoint to the bizarre _beep_ of some kind of... Lucius wasn’t sure. It sounded like muggle equipment of some kind, which was alarming. “It’s Friday the thirteenth and you are in Hueco Mundo. You’ve been treated for hypovolemic shock and I expect you to make a complete recovery.”

Lucius had no idea what Hueco Mundo was, except that it was maybe Spanish for _something something world._

At the moment, all Lucius saw of it was a cold metal slab, which was where he’d woken. He was laid out on his chest with his chin rolled carefully if uncomfortably to one side.

He could see the legs of the table bolted into the ground. Above were bright halogen lights. There were tubes running from the table for drainage and restraints left clean and untied dangling from the corners.

He felt his heart kick into high gear. The beeping sounds intensified.

When he tried to gather himself to roll over and look at him face to face, Szayel pressed his flat hand to Lucius's unmarked shoulder and just... casually held him down.

Lucius pushed back, shoving with the strength in his chest and biceps. There wasn't even a hint of movement: the hand on his back remained there, steady, steely pressure. Szayel never even had to bring his body weight into play. It wasn't hurting, but it was very clear that he was not going anywhere.

"Stop struggling," sighed his soul mate. "I dislike conflict as a rule, but I can assure you that if you insist I will win."

That... seemed extremely likely, yes.

He sunk back down obediently.

"Oh, good," said Szayel with some relief. "I knew you you had to have more wits than the rest -- you’re _my_ soul mate, after all. Now just stay right there -- my review of the available literature suggests that this won't hurt a bit."

In Lucius's experience, 'this won't hurt a bit' usually preceded something that did in fact hurt quite a lot. His stomach did a terrible, unsteady, swooping thing and his muscles locked up.

“What are--”

"Tsk," said Szayel, unimpressed, and he rubbed the ball of his thumb over the butterfly mark.

"A--ah," Lucius got out, right before he melted into a boneless puddle on the slab. It felt like something warm and glowing unfurling across his nervous system: a hot, sweet, overwhelming wave that left his senses reeling and his brain jellified in its wake. It felt _good_. Just... overwhelming.

"Do you think that happens every time?" Szayel wondered, sounding utterly delighted. “I wonder what sort of spirit particles and hormones that’s releasing. That would certainly explain how rapidly soul mates become attached to one another. Do you think you’re recovered enough for me to draw blood?”

Lucius made a noise. He’d have liked to panic, but it was actually quite difficult to rouse himself to alarm. The most he managed was a sort of unsteady nervousness. “Draco?”

“What?”

Well, if the demon hadn’t noticed him then he probably hadn’t murdered him. That didn’t mean somebody else hadn’t, though.

“Let me up.”

There was a moment’s pause while Szayel checked the read out of... something. He wasn’t even paying attention anymore but the weight of his hand was still enough to pin Lucius, which was...

...he wasn’t sure if that was going to be alarming or exciting once he’d recovered enough of his senses to have feelings again.

“Oh, very well. Your blood pressure’s recovered enough.” A pause, then a sigh. “Your rate of recovery is _barely_ above human.”

Lucius refrained from expressing his response to this statement, which was a deeply sarcastic _Really_? Slowly but without unnecessary help, he levered himself up, rolling slightly to bring himself to a sitting position. He felt hungover and dizzy.

Szayel made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat like he’d read something from Lucius’s silence. “Don’t mistake me. I’m aware of what you are. It’s appalling that my soul mate should be a cringing, pathetic human -- but as you are my soul mate, there _must_ be something different or special about you. I will find it.”

Lucius blinked slowly. “...I’ll try to see the best in you, too,” he drawled, squinting unhappily at Szayel through a spill of pale hair.

The most obvious upside was that Szayelaporro was nice to look at. His face was smooth, unblemished, fine-featured and symmetrical, and he had broad shoulders and graceful limbs. He had yellow eyes and hair the colour of fairy floss, which was a little strange, but not a deal breaker. And even though he was on the questionable side of lean, Lucius had a disjointed but distinct memory of being picked up and tossed over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

...alarming or exciting, alarming or exciting?

Lucius had an embarrassing suspicion that the answer was going to be ‘exciting’ when he gathered his wits. If he gathered his wits. His wits were scattered to the winds.

“I suppose you’re reasonably appealing as a sexual partner,” said Szayel, who had apparently been making a very similar assessment, except that Lucius was still not wearing clothes so it felt significantly less fair.

Tact and diplomacy were clearly not things Szayelaporro was bringing to the table here.

He pulled Lucius’s hair away from his eyes with a proprietary hand. “And you represent a great many opportunities to study the phenomenon of a soul mate bond in depth, which can only be a good thing.”

Lucius nodded, although he could think of several ways in which that could actually be a very bad thing. For him.

For him where he was currently trapped naked in Szayel’s laboratory in some unknown location. This could be a bad thing, yes.

Unlike a human, Szayel didn’t seem to realise that prolonged, intent and direct eye contact got awkward fast.

“Can I see my mark?” Lucius asked finally, letting his eyes do a quick flick up and down.

It turned out to be a spider, a dark, low-slung, spindly-legged body that made a home in the hollow of Szayel’s hipbone, low on the curve of his belly. It made no effort to escape Lucius’s fingers when he reached out for it, and instead seemed to get in his way on purpose.

Szayel’s skin was warm, soft and silky and so, so _warm_ \-- and the moment Lucius’s fingers made contact with the mark, he made a low hoarse noise and swayed forward, into the touch. “Oh,” he said, sounding surprised.

Lucius drew him closer just by lifting his fingers -- he moved into the space they left almost unconsciously, and his long fingers closed over Lucius’s forearm.

“ _Mmm_ ,” he murmured happily, in a tone that curled up in Lucius’s guts, melting and dripping and obscene. He shivered.

Szayel leaned into him until the wispy pink parts of his hair mingled with Lucius’s blond. He smelled amazing, salty and physical with a strange, deep sweetness. Lucius leaned closer and inhaled against the hollow of his throat.

The hand he wasn’t digging into Lucius’s arm fell heavily upon his shoulder, where it encountered the spread wings of the big soul mark there. Everything went hot and liquid and fuzzy. Lucius hooked an arm around his waist and reeled him in closer.

“...be careful I don’t break you in half...” Szayel was mumbling, mostly to himself, and then he laid a bruising hand on Lucius’s hip. He could feel the impossible strength in it and for a breathless, intensely hormonal moment all Lucius could think was _Merlin, yes, do it._

Blunt nails scraped over the mark. It felt like being lit up from the inside, little pops and crackles of unexpected, intense feeling spreading out over his skin. He clung and moaned throatily into Szayel’s shoulder.

Something beeped loudly in one corner of the room.

Szayel stopped entirely, breathing hard, hands dropping to his sides. He didn’t move again. Lucius made a plaintive noise and rubbed the ball of his thumb over the little spider mark. It made Szayel’s expression blank and his eyes unfocus, but it didn’t actually get him to move.

“Your recovery time is truly appalling,” he said instead, sounding ruffled, which was when Lucius realised that the beeping was happening because his own heart rate had exceeded safe limits.

“I feel fine,” he lied.

Szayelaporro looked at him with narrowed eyes, glinting gold under the too-bright lights. There were several, obvious indications that he was not entirely recovered and the heart monitoring -- spell? machine? alarm? -- was still making its irritating noises.

There was a moment’s hesitation that Lucius could almost see on his face -- _should I? shouldn’t I?_

“I’ll be gentle,” said Szayel with a smile, sounding exactly as sincere as Lucius’s ‘I feel fine’.

Then he grabbed him by the thigh and dragged him from the table. The world tumbled dizzily and the monitor’s alarms went crazy, then Szayel just as easily spun him around and slammed him back down upon the table, this time face-first.

Lucius made the effort to rise, to shift to be more comfortable, and Szayelaporro held him immobile, chest pressed to the metal slab and ribs creaking a warning. He could barely breathe.

He’d never turned on so fast or so intensely in his life. The noise that escaped him was _humiliating_.

 _Alarming or exciting?_ asked the snidest voice in Lucius’s mind, and then Szayel’s teeth scraped right over the mark on his shoulder and his brain melted completely.

He’d never gotten bent over a table and fucked before, either. Well, actually he’d never had anal sex before, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t meant to feel that good. Pretty sure that was at least partially the soul mark making him like it.

Didn’t matter. Szayel fucked him and he felt it clean up his spine and he couldn’t move, could nearly not breathe. His ribs protested and his lungs burned and his heart thundered. At some point Szayel dug his fingers in Lucius’s hair right near the scalp and pulled and Lucius might have yelled. A little. Like with every other breath.

He blacked out when he came.

“God,” he muttered hoarsely when he roused himself again. His face was stuck to the table with drool. His bruises had bruises but his brain felt like it was floating, riding high on a wave of _oh my god._

He had an inkling that it might be better to stay horizontal for the time being. Szayel rubbed one too-strong thumb up his spine, along the tense muscles there.

So. Soulmate sex. That... was a thing. That was definitely a thing that had happened. It was a thing he could feel dripping down his thigh.

He took a deep breath, trying to gauge the bruising on his ribs. ‘Bad’ was his initial assessment. While he was thinking of things that were bad, he stumbled across all of the other things he hadn’t been thinking about.

Which led him right back to Draco and -- “The Dark Lord,” he said finally. It wasn’t a topic he particularly enjoyed addressing, but--

“Currently there’s roughly one eighth of him residing in my drawer,” Szayel reported. He drew one finger over the butterfly mark and seemed only too delighted when Lucius gave an exhausted sort of twitch. He was incapable of relaxing further without turning into a liquid.

“...what?”

“Mmm. I’m eager to see how he managed to cut himself into so many pieces, but I expect I’ll have to find at least one of the others to do that,” he offered. “It should be straightforward to track his specific signature for a being of my considerable genius.”

“I... Right,” said Lucius, in the tone of somebody who wasn’t touching that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lucius Malfoy/Szayelaporro Granz pairing supplied by an anon. 
> 
> It took me until I was halfway through to realise this is pretty much the sentient and soulmate version of my other fic Sound The Alarm, by which I mean that both fics involved Lucius being sacrificed to eldritch abominations by Lord Voldemort and then being rapidly kidnapped and fucked unconscious. So, like, lord help me for the SI/OC insert story in which _he's the main character's dad_. Ehem.
> 
> Anyway, if there was something you particularly liked about this one, let me know in a comment. :)


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